


Recommencer

by felixfvlicis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Auror Harry Potter, M/M, Minor Character Death, Musician Draco Malfoy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9203633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: Six years removed from the war, Draco aches for a new beginning.  He abandons Malfoy Manor and moves to Crouch End, settling into his life as a musician.  All too quickly, he realizes that some parts of his past are inescapable, especially where Harry Potter is concerned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd WIP. Multi-chapter AU. Title is French, meaning _to begin again_.

Draco leaned against the moss covered bricks of the Finsbury, the tree strung lights behind him illuminated his jagged features and now golden-blonde hair.  A chilled autumn breeze made him shiver as he pursed his lips, granting the lit cigarette between his bony fingers permission to coat his lungs with decayed tobacco particles, hoping they’d elicit a deep cough from his chest, so he could feel something.  People glanced as they passed him, but they never glared — the glaring was what he was used to, what he expected, like the inevitability of time, still a bit unnerved when his expectations weren’t met.  

 

The coiling that began in the depths of his navel slithered its way through his abdomen and into the cavity of his chest, pulsing, tightening, threatening to crack — like forcing the one middle puzzle piece that he knows will complete the picture into an outside corner because he’s fucking _tired_ of making everything fit just so.  For the briefest of moments, he was warm.  Puffs of smoke escaped his still-pursed lips as he closed his eyes, falling into the lull of the autumn air, enveloped in the chuckles and whispers of people surrounding him.

  
The steady, piercing sound of a blithering idiot resting on their car horn pulled him from his haze.  He huffed a sigh, angling his left wrist upwards.  He had ten minutes.  With a single rake of thin, blistered fingers through his ale-shaded hair, he stepped across the threshold and into the noisy, dimly lit pub.    

 

*******

 

Six years removed from the war, aching to extract the last traces of Malfoy blood from his veins, Draco pawned his family heirlooms and most of his possessions — to alleviate the heavy pressure of his mother’s thumb, still pressing steadily against his pulse point.  Each time, reassured when she felt life’s throb underneath blue-tinged veins in his neck.  With his father serving a life sentence in Azkaban, his mother remained at the manor, though she drifted further into isolation with each passing day — patches of her flesh buried beneath a velvet upholstered chair, her hollow bones conversing with the echoes of the dead beneath the floorboards. 

He was suffocating. The remnants of _Malfoy_ threatening to pull every last breath of air from his lungs to taste immortality, the permanence irreversible.  He managed to fit all of his belongings, ones that weren’t tainted by memories of Voldemort, into his old Hogwarts trunk — the irony was never lost on him.  His lips parted as a whispered goodbye settled into the depths of his mother’s left cheekbone before he turned on his heels and vanished.

 

*********  
**

 

He chose to settle in Crouch End, in truth, because it reminded him so much of Hogwarts.  The tree-lined streets and markets resurrected themselves from shattered windows and brick-ladened debris of Diagon Alley — coming alive again, his own little piece of home.  The bakeries and coffee shops, mere inches apart, mirrored the childlike innocence of Honeydukes, with its floor to ceiling windows revealing the bright, colorful pastries young wizards yearned to devour.  The vast, rich hues of earth in Alexandra Park beckoned him to revive his heartsick Nimbus 2001, to coax it to life — whooshing up past the treetops, weaving through branches, floating above the city — the lamp posts illuminating his way to Birchington Road, the air lifting his golden blonde side-swept bangs from his face, a light autumnal scent teasing his strands, reminding him of the loose-limbed hum of bliss he so often felt after Quidditch practice.  Crouch End reminded him of the boy he used to be — young, confident, and devious, but with a quiet vulnerability and pulsing passion - for things, for people - he’d yet to understand.  

He could be _Draco_ again.  

If the neighborhood thrust him into the reverie of boyhood, his newly purchased flat on 5 Birchington Road whispered promises that lulled him to sleep in the darkest of nights, disguising its soul as a warm embrace that enveloped his lithe, war-ridden frame.  And, if, per se, his throat tightened the first time opened the front door of his home, he most certainly blamed it on the greenery pushing through the earth in his small front garden.  He’d always been quite sensitive to smells, to be honest.  Or perhaps he was simply sensitive — though, this was something that the strongest dose of Veritaserum couldn’t force him to admit.

Draco sidestepped his way through the throng of tipsy patrons, foregoing apologies as he bumped against shoulders and hips, leaving a trail of beer droplets every few paces.  Upon reaching the dimly lit, dingy corridor, he released a held breath, his figure arched against the wall, head tipped back, shadows dancing against his adam’s apple.

 

********* **  


“Mic check — one . . . two,” a deep, honey-coated voice echoed.  

  
Draco pushed himself away from the wall with his left foot before making his way further towards the stage section of the pub.  A half-open forest green felt curtain welcomed him as he stepped through.  He blinked, his eyes adjusting once again to the darkness of the room.  He remembered tucking his guitar case somewhere in the back corner nearly three hours ago.  He stepped forward, barely an inch, before the tip of his oxford bumped against the neck of a guitar case.  His fingers prodded the metal latches in the darkness, feeling around, between, for the outlines of a small wand-carved Slytherin crest.  He hummed in response, clicking open the case, pulling his graffitied guitar out of its coffin by the neck, positioning the pliant black woven strap halfway between his neck and the top of his left shoulder.  He smiled, one corner of his mouth turned upwards, the u-shaped base tapping against his hipbone as he walked, thin thrums of sound echoing throughout the guitar’s body. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics come from _Wants what it wants_ by Andrew Belle.

Draco sat cross-legged on the wool ivory rug, staring through the crackling warmth of the fire he’d summoned with wandless magic.  His blistered hands, stained with remnants of failed apothecary potion experiments, throbbed in sync with each pop of the flames.  Despite his tired hands and aching body, the guitar he’d bought from Tomas, an elderly yarn shop owner nearly three months ago, begged to be played.  He could _feel_ it.  And to think, he used to snicker at Mr. Olivander, half-shocked and embarrassed by the ridiculous nature of ‘knowing’ wands.   _“The wand always chooses the wizard, Mr. Malfoy,”_ Olivander drawled, a gleam in his unfocused eyes as if he understood he was _made_ for this.  

 

The strings were still fairly rigid from weeks of neglect — the thrum of Draco’s fingers a soliciting pinched, painful tones from its cherry wood soul.  Despite the tiredness that threatened to seize Draco’s body — burying itself deep in his veins, the coated whisper of petrificus totalus reaching his fingertips, he wanted to make the guitar sing — wanted to reawaken the deep, rich tones that hypnotized his mind, letting the heavy hum pull him from the earth as the atmosphere opened for him, revealing a realm of endless possibility.   

 

Eyes fluttered closed, as he sat still, patient, for he knew the words would find him and begin to tumble from his lips, just as sure as the ebb and flow of the tides.  Soon enough, the words journeyed toward his conscience through the cracks of book spines on the ivory built in - crept towards him, thick with the scent of burnt wood, skirting above the hardwood, traveling against pale skin before sinking into his ears, repeating . . .

 

_‘because it_

_it wants what it wants,_

_the heart does.’_   

 

Draco’s fingers touched the strings tentatively, before thrumming them, feeling the vibration envelop his empty flat with a warmth he’d only experienced once before in his life — in the room where things were hidden, protecting Zabini, Goyle, and Crabbe, his wand pointed, shakily, at the ‘Z’ of Potter’s scar, voice dripping with fear, exhaustion, and something else he couldn’t quite place.  His fingers molded themselves to the strings, as the repetitious phrase quietly roared to life with each chord progression.

 

Later, after a bottle of ale, when Draco shuffled to his bedroom, barefoot, stifling a yawn, he swore he heard Potter’s voice behind him, whispering _‘you knew it was me’_.  … Or maybe, he was simply drunk.

 

*******

 

Standing behind the left side of the stage, Draco peeked around the corner to get a glimpse of tonight’s crowd.  The ones outside of the Finsbury, and surrounding the streets, were rather boisterous — the kind of folks he wanted to avoid, for tonight at least.  He’d come to realize that he possessed an understated, shy sort of talent.  He was quiet, laid back, and at times, allowed a singular chuckle to escape his lips between breaths as he sang, eyes bright, sharp, focused, the corners of his lips fighting the urge to turn upward nearly every chance they got.

Slim, white ankle pants hugged his waist, barely brushing the tongue of his black oxfords.  He’d heard somewhere, once, that one was not permitted to wear white pants after September passed, but since when had Draco followed the rules?  Of fashion, no less?  A black button down laid loose against his torso, sleeves tabbed just above each elbow, collar framing his neckline, before opening into a v-shape, the top three buttons revealing a patch of pale skin illuminated against the stage lights, pushing focus to a small transparent hourglass charm hanging from a black string chain around his neck.

Paired with his graffiti-ladened guitar, resting against his hip, he barely resembled Lucius and Narcissa’s Draco, the bright, polished, eager boy with the piercing blue eyes.  Instead, he was this Draco — the young, war-ridden man, looking to take a deep breath and begin again, his piercing blue eyes floating aimlessly in the atmosphere above him — a shell of who he used to be.

 **  
** He walked across the stage to a handful of less-than-enthusiastic claps, planted his feet in the center of the red-taped X, and began to play, feeling the guitar resurrect beneath him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.  
> Lyrics in this chapter come from _East_ by Sleeping at Last.

Harry Potter was the last person Draco expected to see walking through the cobbled sidewalks of Crouch End on an early Sunday evening.  The grayish blue sky inviting the orange-lavender hue of the sunset to keep it company as they awaited the arrival of the ink-ladened night.  The damp air filled his lungs - the familiarity coaxing him back to the Quidditch pitch during eighth year.  He and Potter had raced for the golden snitch six times, with Potter edging him out four to two.  When he landed, Potter followed, closing the grassy gap that separated them so that they were pressed together, shoulder to ankle.  His breath hitched in his chest as he lifted his palm, splayed beneath the earth, to rest on Potter’s thigh.  

 

He watched intently, a hint of nervousness coloring his expression -- identical to the year before, standing, legs slightly spread apart in the Room of Requirement, his mother’s wand trembling in his sweaty-palmed grasp --  as the corners of Potter’s mouth turned upward, the tip of his tongue darting out, moving slowly across his top lip, a thin transparent sheen of saliva settling into the flesh, darkening it half a shade.  

 

Draco swallowed, feeling the prominence of his adam’s apple for the first time, a bead of sweat clutching the curve of his skin, drowning in the sweet thrill of desire, his hand never moving from Potter’s thigh, tilting on the precipice of vulnerability, the fluke of rebirth.   _ “Malfoy,” _ Harry whispered, his voice tinged with regret and a longing for something they both stumbled into that made Draco’s bones ache.  His muscles unwound themselves as his name falling from Harry’s lips brushed the skin against his neck, slithering downward, settling into his collarbone, allowing himself a brief moment to be still before he pulled away.  Neither of them spoke of that day again.

 

But, alas, he was here, walking towards him, hands resting comfortably in his dark denim pockets.  He wore a toffee colored jumper that brought out the green in his eyes.  Draco swallowed thickly, his gaze dropping to his navy trainers.  He’d been staring.  He’d opened up the hollow cavity in his chest, wallpapered floor to ceiling of almost-moments with Potter.  Was it possible for him to still be the catalyst to Draco’s undoing?  He left home to begin anew, and anew was not  _ this _ .  He shook himself from the depths of his subconscious and resumed walking.  

  
*******

He always came downtown on Sundays during this time because, if he was honest, he found it quite inspiring.  The city was buzzing with life, anticipation and the promise of new opportunity — each time, reaffirming his choice to call this home.  His guitar was tucked securely in the pocket of his khaki trousers, thanks to the  _ reducio _ charm he’d whispered as he stepped out of his front door, passing the newborn blooms in his garden.  He itched to pull it out and strum in time to the chatter of people around him as he walked.  Observing his surroundings, making sure the coast was clear, he ducked into a narrow, dingy alleyway, bracing himself against the bricks as he retrieved his guitar from his trouser pocket.  He whispered a wandless  _ engorgio _ as he watched the instrument morph into its normal size in front of him, the neck digging into the crook of his elbow.  Huffing a sigh of relief, he checked both sides of the alley before sliding back into step with the steady flow of people along the sidewalk.  He passed a sweet shop and a book shop, humming to himself all the while, his fingers unconsciously strumming, mimicking the rhythm of his pulse.

 

The street lights illuminated his frame as he walked, the neck of his guitar imprinted against the wrinkles of his loosely buttoned white shirt.  As the sky darkened, the melodies elicited from his graffiti stained instrument grew heavier, more lonely.  The words tumbling from his lips were broken pleas, thick with emotion, looking for something he’d yet to find.  

 

_ ‘maybe paper is paper, _

_ maybe kids will be kids _

_ lord i want to remember _

_ how to feel like i did.’ _

 

The moment he chanced a look further down the cobblestone sidewalk, Harry Potter had vanished.

  
*******

Draco's head was throbbing.  He was definitely too tired to apparate home.  Somehow, he’d managed to pack up his gear and exit the Finsbury through the throng of now absurdly drunk patrons, the snapping chill of late October air greeting him as he stepped out onto the damp asphalt of the bike lane.      

 

Nearly an hour later, he was leaning against the front door of his flat, fumbling for his keys sunken into the depths of his white pants pocket.  His body was too heavy for him, and he feared an entirely undignified collapse at any moment with even the slightest of movements.  After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to enter the threshold of his flat, kicking the door shut with his right foot, muttering a broken  _ colloportus  _ spell before trudging to the living room, placing his guitar between the wooden dining table and the raised windowsill.  He managed to remove his black oxfords before tumbling over the arm of the couch, pulling himself toward the opposite end, lying face up before succumbing to sleep.

 

That night, he dreamt of that Sunday April evening — so many months ago — thick with the scent of a recent rainstorm, of seeing Potter’s stubbled face, those piercing green eyes as he donned that toffee-colored jumper, his figure wandering aimlessly through Crouch End, as if he’d no clue what he was looking for, though his eyes shone with the certainty he’d find it here eventually.

  
He woke the next morning with the slightest hint of a melody on his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm continually floored by the wonderful feedback this story has received. It means _so much_ that so many people are falling in love with the narrative. _Thank you_.
> 
> Lyrics in this chapter come from _Black Flies_ by Ben Howard.
> 
> ♥

During the first week of June, when the weather in Crouch End flirted with the idea of summer, Draco received a letter from his mother.  He had no idea how she could have found him, for when he vanished all those years ago, he never intended on going back.  But alas, his eyes scanned the ink stains on the parchment - his mother’s hollowed out voice coating his bones.  She sent her regards, laced with silent pleas, her  _ ‘please come home’ _ ’s  hoping to excavate her young son, the Malfoy that she was certain was still inside Draco - her nails digging against his core, searching for her child, wild and bewildered. 

 

He sighed - heavy, thick - crumpling the parchment, chucking it into the ash-stained fireplace.  Feeling trapped in his normally spacious flat, he shuffled back into his bedroom, retrieved a dark denim button down, black slacks, white trainers, and his guitar, settling it carefully against his hip, hanging on his left shoulder before walking out.  

 

Draco walked for a mile or so, breathing in the humid, lemon-scented air, relishing in the warmth of summer.  Eventually, he ended up in Finsbury park, surrounded by trees and lush greenery, the stubbornness of mid-morning refusing to give way to afternoon.  Longing to feel less nomadic and more tethered to the earth, Draco kept walking until he reached a small pond, its edges enveloped with moss, clusters of bright yellow buttercup flowers in full bloom nearby.  He hopped the forest green metal fence and settled beneath the mulchy earth.  He watched the rowboats pass back and forth on the surface of the pond, peeled the guitar from his body, as he loosened the top three buttons of his shirt.  Absentmindedly, his fingers began to pluck the strings, the somber melodic tones tinged with hints of regret, the finalities of goodbye.  

 

_ ‘Mother,’ _ he whispered, his voice thick with unspoken apologies, before he plucked a single golden buttercup from its stem, severing its life-force, placing it on the pond's surface, watching it float away. 

 

*******   
  


 

A week had passed since Draco’s mediocre Finsbury gig if the crowds had been anything to go by.  Though he’d no intention of gaining fame from playing gigs, he enjoyed the juxtaposition of rush and release it provided.  It reminded him of Quidditch - the thrill of the chase, wanting the snitch, a rush of adrenaline released into the atmosphere before the reality of finite time settled into bones, before you’re falling back down to earth with a thud.  The melody that attached itself to his cortex many months earlier — Potter’s melody — warm, familiar, aimless - chimed more loudly these days, knocking around in his brain, moving from side to side, unsure of where to settle, and unaware of what it meant to do so.

 

After slumming around his flat for a few hours - attempting to release ink flows of poetic words and phrases across ivory parchment, flipping through the newspaper, looking for any source of inspiration, anything that could snap the monotony that had become his life, Draco decided that he needed a pick-me-up — which is how, nearly half an hour later, he ended up walking into the Haberdashery downtown.

 

The late afternoon sun pushed against Draco’s skin, daring him to succumb to its warmth against the damp autumn chill lingering in the air.  Once he happened upon the coffee shop, he noticed that he’d overdressed - severely.  His tan oxfords popped against the contrast of the wood-worn floor, his navy trouser pants complimented by a toffee colored jumper that seemed oddly familiar to him - the combination making his eyes sparkle like the depths of exotic oceans.  Of course, he’d brought his guitar - he rarely left home without it, the instrument symbolizing things lost and gained - it became his new wand.  Inspiration could strike at any moment, and on this afternoon, he was feeling as if it just might.

 

He found a corner seat, pushed up against wall paneling, angled slightly towards the window reflecting the masses passing by outside.  His legs crossed nearly perfectly underneath the table, kneecap brushing the top ever-so-slightly.  He propped his guitar against his armless chair just before a waitress with shoulder length blonde hair arrived to take his order.  She smiled sweetly at him, suggesting a flat white seeing as he’d never been here before, and they had the best in the city.  He politely accepted her suggestion before asking if it’d be all right to play inside - she offered him the slightest of nods in response, before winking and walking toward the back of the coffee house.  

 

Afternoon melted slowly into evening - the shop signs illuminated by the clear glow of the lamp posts lining the street.  Draco sipped laboriously on his flat white, focusing on the crackling of the fire around him.  It reminded him so much of home - the youthful home, Hogwarts - he nearly ached.  Closing his eyes, releasing an exhale, he picked up his quill and parchment, letting the words tumble and fall from his thoughts and onto the page.

 

_ ‘no man is an island, this i know _

_ but can’t you see? _

_ maybe you were the ocean, when i was just a stone.’ _

 

As Draco’s fingers strummed the strings, new words on the parchment birthed through each chord change, the door opened, chiming once.  The sound startled him, as no one new had entered for several hours.  

 

Draco’s fingers continued to strum, but when he looked up, his breath caught in his throat.

 

Harry Potter was here. _Again._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Lyrics in this chapter come from M83's _Wait_
> 
> ♥

Harry stepped through the door of Haberdashery, pulling at his lower lip with his teeth.  The place seemed nice enough, reminding him vaguely of the Gryffindor common room at Hogwarts -- a place of sanctuary, where bravery and vulnerability slept each night, woven in the bedsheets, quietly stirring bodies to life with the rising sun.  He strode toward the counter tentatively -- a foreigner out of his depth, his black combat boots shuffling -- heavy -- against the vintage hardwood.  He opened his mouth to address the blonde leaning on the other side of the counter but was distracted by the melody emanating from the corner of the room -- his head jerked to the side, as he gazed over his shoulder, eyes falling on Draco’s defined frame.

 

_“Malfoy?”_ Harry questioned, approaching his corner table cautiously, sounds of the crackling fire buzzing in his ear.  He swallowed, his throat thick with saliva.  He continued to study Draco, anxiously waiting for acknowledgment.  The toffee colored jumper he wore complimented his complexion, the hint of gray in his eyes sparkling, enticing onlookers with the thrill of adventure -- chilled winter mornings on the Quidditch pitch, the cold threatening to snap your bones in half the faster you went, the higher you flew -- a needling pain, so familiar, so dangerous, so good.  His then white-blonde hair had darkened a few shades, resembling a golden brown -- the color of the engraved snitch Harry kept tucked underneath his burgundy jumper in the third drawer of his dresser, of Harry’s favorite ale, slow and sweet, hints of honey, lemon, and cinnamon coating his throat -- settling in his stomach, the tension extracted from his body like the pop of a rubber band.  

 

The way Draco’s name sounded pushing through Harry’s mouth, begging for release in the open air, was loaded -- heavy tones, screaming  _ ‘is this really you’ _ , and  _ ‘where have you been, you git?’ _ , mixed with nervousness and a hint of fondness that terrified Harry more than anything else.  The syllables rhythmic, sweet and inviting, yet cautious, for if he went too far, dove too deep, he would see the irreparable cracks, the hollow shell of a boy he’d known long ago.  

 

Draco barely found his words as he watched Harry push his hands deep into the pockets of his black jeans.  He looked _different_.  His clothes, normally lying haphazardly against his lithe body, actually fit.  Draco could make out the dips and curves of his arms beneath his maroon jumper, and, if he leaned just so, a patch of sand-colored skin revealed itself, goosebumps populating the flesh.  Still, there was something off about Harry that Draco couldn’t quite place.  He resembled someone Draco longed to be -- normal, exceptionally ordinary.

 

“In the flesh,” he muttered, longing to close his eyes, though his gaze fell victim to Harry’s magnetic pull, forcing him to meet his eyes.  “What are you doing here, Potter?”  Draco extracted the guitar from his body and propped it up against the chair beside him, pushing the chair opposite him out with his foot for Harry to sit.

 

Harry drew a sharp intake of breath and rounded the chair to sit, back straight, hands clasped together, a stark contrast against the dark wooden table.  “Your mother,” he began, “enlisted my help -- to find you.”

 

Draco gaped at him, his eyes wide, betrayal and sadness twining themselves together before settling into the faint lines of Draco’s forehead.  

 

“. . . Why?” Draco asked, his voice pained with disbelief.

 

Harry longed his wand in this moment, for the  _ reducio _ charm that was pleading with his lips for release -- he wanted to burst into bits of matter that would scatter like ashes on the hardwood floor.  He couldn’t bear to see that look on Draco’s face -- like he’d unleashed the sectumsempra curse as the lashes slashed his chest all over again.

 

“Because,” Harry breathed, “your father . . .  he died in Azkaban three days ago.  It took me this long to find you.  The funeral is in two days and -- your presence is requested.”  By the time he finished, Harry’s voice was low, a mere trail of whispered words.  He pulled the envelope from his inside coat pocket, pushing it across the table toward Draco.

 

Draco reached for the envelope as his expression softened into something unreadable.  The paper was warm, pliant, against his cool, calloused hands -- it smelled of cinnamon and citrus -- a scent he always associated with Potter at Hogwarts.  He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled, his body seizing with inescapable fear and sadness.

 

“No,” Draco mumbled, clasping his hands together, resting his elbows on the table.  “I’m not going back, Potter.  I said goodbye to my parents a long time ago.”

 

Harry sighed, sweeping a hand down his face in frustration.  Though, he’s not sure what he expected from Draco.  In the months following the war, Draco’s vehemence toward the Malfoy name threatened to consume him, if the guilt and regret of his actions didn’t crush him first.  He felt his father’s sharp fingernails dig into his shoulder, his voice frail, childlike --  _ “if we are the ones to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, we can be free.” _

 

“Malfoy,” Harry began, “You don’t have to go.  I’m simply delivering the message.”

 

Draco searched Harry’s face much in the same way he did all those years ago, when snatchers brought him to the manor.  Figuring out the best way to hide the answer from the truth he’d always known, like being stuck in the darkness for years, yearning for something still unknown, before a deluminator fell at his feet.  In Harry’s eyes, he saw much of the boy he failed to identify that night -- fierce, good, irrevocably loyal -- yet his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief, of desire, that Draco wanted to discover and devour, frustrated that he lacked the license to ask.  He never wanted this for them, and yet … here they were, on opposite sides -- of the table, of the earth -- of their lives -- still managing to find their way to each other, no matter the circumstance.  

 

“Well,” Draco murmured, “I appreciate it, and I’m sorry for your wasted trip.”

 

Harry stared at him quizzically, as if to ask,  _ ‘who are you and what have you done with Malfoy?’ _  He took a deep breath and opened his mouth as the words tumbled from his lips.

 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Harry nearly whispered, not daring to meet Draco’s gaze.  “A wasted trip, I mean.”

 

Draco cleared his throat, the sound pulling Harry’s gaze upward as he caught the blush tint coloring his cheeks.

 

He’d made Draco blush.  The realization knotted his insides, pulling so tight that they nearly snapped, the pop of his magic being stretched too thin filling him with a sort of pulsing courage, a frightening vulnerability.

 

“Oh?” Draco responded, feigning the Malfoy mask once more.

 

“Since I’m still sitting here, I figure you could at least tell me about your life, how you are,” Harry breathed, fearing he’d said too much.  “Small talk, you know.”

 

“Right.  Small talk.” Draco repeated, his expression unreadable.  He swept his palm across his face, as though he could will himself out of this predicament, despite the fact that he was unsure of whether or not he ever wished to leave this place alone.

 

“Well, Potter, what would you like to know?”

 

Harry had to craft his response thoughtfully -- what  _ did _ he want to know?  Why he nearly proposed to Astoria Greengrass, why he left his home, why his mother reached out to Harry for help, why he never said goodbye.

 

“Whatever you want to tell me, Malfoy.”  Harry kept his voice even, though the hint of sparkle in his emerald eyes gave him away - his desire for honesty, vulnerability.

 

Draco read his expression, a quiet longing latched itself onto the bones of his aching hands.  When Harry looked at him like that, openly, radiating warmth, exuding a seductive confidence that Draco envied for more than half his life, he’d tell Harry anything he wanted to know.  He began where they’d left off, their hushed, tight whispers echoing throughout the corridors of the Ministry of Magic, the memory of their firm handshake still etched in the forefront of Draco’s mind through the changing winds of the seasons, through lovers, through the echoes and thrums of city streets and small cafes, illuminated in the darkness of his room.  He opened his mouth to speak, pulling the sweet-scented air from the room and into his lungs.  “I couldn’t stay at the manor.  I was becoming my father’s son.”

 

The word _‘father’_ tumbled from Draco’s lips and fell against the tabletop, cracked and bruised, but still whole.  It sickened him.  He envisioned the harsh lines of his father’s eyes, memorized the way he spat Draco’s name when he was no more than a child because his cries of frustration upon his inability to grasp more complex spells -- protective defense spells -- were seen as a weakness.  If he sat still for the briefest of moments, in silence, he could feel the sharp, snake-like fangs of his father’s walking stick digging into his left shoulder, the half-moons resembling the bruises he’d received from Voldemort, Dolohov, and Greyback during their invasion of his childhood home all those years ago.

 

Harry offered Draco a half-nod as he pushed his glasses up against the bridge of his nose, weighing his words carefully, his bottom lip lodged between his teeth.  After nearly a minute of silence, he unclasped his hands, his palms splayed beneath the table.  “I see,” Harry murmured, still trying to fill in the deliberate gaps in Draco’s explanation, worrying his lip with enough pressure to draw blood.  “After all these years, you’re still braver than you think, Malfoy.”  He cleared his throat, settling back in his chair as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, his conscience clear.  He looked at Draco expectantly.  His eyes were still sparkling, the crackling fire reflecting in his glasses, the burnt-orange light dancing in the center of his pupil.

 

Draco’s words caught in his throat as he met Harry’s gaze once more, his body humming with the all-too-familiar melody that caused sleep to elude him, hung in the crevices of his flat, hovering above him at every turn, overwhelming him each time he grasped his wand -- the allusion of Potter.

 

“Abandoning my mother isn’t bravery, Potter.  It’s cowardice,” Draco responded, matter-of-factly, his tone flat, colored with a hint of malignity.  He regretted it immediately.  Sighing, he dragged his palm down his face in an act of frustration.  He could still hear his mother’s palliative voice lilting with melodic notes as she ran her fingers through his hair, her lips pressed against the side of his skull.  Harry was still looking at him, lips slightly pursed.  “You talk of bravery as if it isn’t inherent.  As if it begs to be touched by anyone who reveres it in the slightest.  The things I’ve done . . .” he trailed off, feeling as if he’d stepped back in time, staring at the rubble of Hogwarts with a look of disbelief and shame, fully aware of his blood-stained hands, the echoing cries of the abandoned roaring in his ears.  In this moment, he felt the weight of being a Malfoy, anchoring him to the earth, helplessly inescapable.

 

Harry shook his head, in part to refute Draco’s assertions, to release frustration.  He saw so much of himself in Draco that he bit back the urge to chuckle.  “People can change, you know,” he whispered, softly, pulling his hand back toward him slightly, the close proximity to Draco more startling than it ought to be - his mind lingering back to those almost moments, all those years ago, surprised by how much he wanted them, even still.  

 

Draco sighed.  “It seems you haven’t changed a bit,” though he could feel the pulsing lie as it rolled off his tongue, suspended in the air between them.  “Ever the Gryffindor.”     

 

Harry’s cheeks turned a pigmented shade of pink.  A stream of air escaped his lips, creating a nearly hypnotic hissing sound.  He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, resting his palm against his temple, offering Draco the slightest hint of a smirk, something it appeared he’d mastered.  “If that’s what you think, Malfoy, then we have a lot of catching up to do.”

 

“So it seems,” Draco responded before rolling his eyes at Potter’s casual form, his gaze transfixed on the veins in his seemingly strong, worn hands.  He wondered if he still knew Potter at all, moreover, if he truly ever did.  It wouldn’t be the first time the prospect of starting anew excited him, though, with the way his heart thudded inside of his chest, the sweet rush of blood swimming in his veins, floating lazily, like the boats on the river in Finsbury Park many months ago, this seemed irreparable, inevitable.

 

_ ‘there’s no end, there is no goodbye, _

 

_ disappear with the night _

  
_ no time’ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.   
> Lyrics in this chapter come from _'To Build a Home'_ by Cinematic Orchestra.
> 
> I may be a little slower in posting (as opposed to every other day), but I'll try to update at least twice a week if not more. Thank you for sticking with the story, and to those who continue to leave wonderful comments, you make my day. 
> 
> ♥

Draco and Harry spent hours tucked against the little corner table, as the late autumnal evening morphed into the plum-colored night sky, the stars illuminating the fogged windowpanes.

 

“Let me guess,” Draco began, his voice dripping with theatrics, nudging Harry’s heavy combat boots with the narrow toe of his trainers underneath the table. “Being an Auror is everything you dreamed of and more.”

 

It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes.  “It’s not exactly glamorous, as you’re implying, but it’s . . .” he paused, unsure of how much to reveal. He swallowed, thick saliva coating his throat  “All I’ve known.  The thrill of the chase, running away from complacency, straight into uncertainty, with the knowledge that, whatever happens, I’m doing a bit of good.  It’s completely unorthodox, I know, but, I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.”

 

“You  _ would _ say that.”

 

Harry laughed, soft and open, his whole body vibrating with it.  “Honesty is the best policy.  Always.”  He paused briefly, his gaze lingering on Draco’s chest, before coming back to himself.  “I’d never have guessed you play,” Harry murmured, gesturing to Draco’s guitar, still propped up against the chair.  A look of genuine surprise flashed across his face, nearly alight with wonder as if he was hanging on every word that would soon tumble from Draco’s lips.

 

Draco shifted in his seat, weighing his words.  “The absence of a wand got to be . . . too much, after awhile.”  He wouldn’t dare say more, though, deep down, he suspected Harry already knew -- this simple notion had always unnerved him.  

 

Harry nodded, his gaze focused on the soft blue-gray in Draco’s eyes, his mind pulling him back to the early morning sunrise against the Hogwarts rubble, the heavy feeling of the Elder Wand in his hands, a spelless bond anchoring him to the magical world before he snapped its magic in half, the remnants of a seductive promise settling into his palm, shattered pieces of a whole.  In that moment, he’d never felt freer -- he ached for it now.  

 

Their eyes followed the easy sway of the blonde’s hips as she gripped the ‘Open’ sign between her thumb and index finger, turning it abruptly to ‘Closed’.  The air felt thick, suddenly, the threat of missed opportunities hovering above their heads, tones of melancholy resting just beneath the pliable strings of Draco’s guitar, begging for a glimpse of joy, the softest of smirks, a quiet touch in the evening glow of light.

 

Draco cleared his throat, turning his jaw toward the door, the slightest gesture of more, again, reflected in the glass windowpane.  “Shall we?”

 

For all of his quiet confidence, Harry suddenly felt out of his depth.  He’d come to Crouch End on a whim, with only the clothes on his back and Narcissa’s crumpled parchment in his pocket.  He nodded and stood expeditiously, the sound of his chair leg scraping against hardwood doing little to ease his anxiety.  

 

He watched Draco repeat the same movements with much more subtlety, transfixed on his palm wrapping around the neck of his guitar before adjusting the strap to settle nicely between the shoulder and the crook of his neck, the instrument vibrating with clipped sounds each time he moved.

 

Harry stretched a bit before turning to exit the shop, the tail of his jumper riding up just slightly still, the same patch of skin that made Draco’s breath catch in his throat from earlier, having much the same effect.  Draco welcomed the fresh air.

 

“Malfoy,” Harry started, shoving his hands in his coat pocket, chancing a look at him from the corner of his eye.  “Do you know of any decent places to stay around here?  I didn’t anticipate . . .”

 

Draco swallowed, the late autumnal wind biting against his cheeks.  Suddenly, the thought of being alone tonight terrified him more than anything else.  He’d been seduced by warmth and the beauty of vulnerability, conjured memories of Potter flooding through his mind, snapshots of the warm afternoon on the Quidditch pitch clicking behind his eyes -- irreparably scarred but still so young, how everything seemed so simple on the grounds of Hogwarts, as if the atmosphere would open for them at any moment, cradling them in a haze of bliss, drowning out the screams of the lost who roamed the halls, trapped underneath the rubble, fooled into thinking their gasps could will Harry into saving them all.  

 

“You’re welcome to stay at mine for the night.  I have an extra bedroom.”  His head hung low, the last words trailed off, tumbling to the depths of the cobblestone street.  His mind screamed for him to rescind the offer, the voice of his father so heavy -- sharp tones piercing his ears, causing his pulse to throb, thrashing against his temple.  

 

Blush colored Harry’s cheeks and neck as soon as Draco’s words were released into the atmosphere, as stunned by the offer as Draco had been.  After a moment, Harry swayed, pushing his weight on his heels, hands still buried in his pockets.  He cleared his throat, a dry, muffled sound, nodding his head in acknowledgement, a small smile forming on his lips.  Tentatively, he met Draco’s gaze, hypnotized by the way the moonlight reflected against his golden-blonde hair.  

 

“All right.  Lead the way,” Harry suggested, brushing his shoulder against Draco’s as they walked down the cobblestone street, streetlights illuminating their path to the outskirts of town.  Every so often, Draco closed his eyes, breathing in the late autumnal air, the sharp scent of mint subdued by the sweet spice of cinnamon, extracting the frustration of late nights and lack of sleep from his muscles, leaving him swaying lazily, nearly pulled along by the soft breeze kissing his skin, rustling near-dead leaves, reviving their last breath, releasing their quiet hiss in the night.  His hip brushed Harry’s more than once, and when he chanced a look, he found Harry pulling at his bottom lip, biting back a smile, the seemingly endless depths of Crouch End reflected in his lenses. 

 

_ ‘I climbed the tree to see the world _

_ When the gusts came around to blow me down _

_ I held on as tightly as you held onto me _

_ I held on as tightly as you held onto me’ _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Lyrics in this chapter come from Dermot Kennedy's _After Rain_.
> 
> ♥

Harry hesitated at the gate of Draco’s flat, shuffling his feet against the sidewalk, his hands buried in his coat pocket, his face a map of twists and turns, illuminated by the glow of the streetlights.  Crossing this threshold, unlikely as it seemed, felt familiar somehow, as if he’d lived a simpler life in a scarless body, unburdened by histories and legacies, free of expectation.  Carding his fingers through his hair, he stepped aside, anchored by nostalgia’s elusive glimpse into what could have been.

 

Draco slid past him, carefully pulling his keys from his trouser pocket.  Their quiet jingle vibrating through the air, warming his palms.  He gestured to Harry, leaning flush against the door frame, a smirk blooming at the corners of his lips.  His breath hitched as Harry took his time stepping across the threshold, peeking through dark lashes, as if he were watching the snitch hover in front of his eyes, his heart dropping into the depths of his stomach as he pounced.

 

Warmth enveloped Harry’s aching bones as soon as Draco closed the door behind them.  He breathed long, slow breaths, savoring the sensation as it tingled his skin.  The flat was surprisingly cozy with its soft glow of evening light lingering on the windowpanes, highlighting their shadows, like the corridors of Hogwarts, a comfortable anchor, a breeding ground for youthful curiosity.  This place felt _lived in_.  It was the last thing Harry expected -- for Draco to knock him off his feet like  _this_.  It felt nostalgic yet new somehow, like a child wishing for a hint of spring warmth to fly kites in open fields, not yet old enough to understand what it means to be free.

 

“Make yourself comfortable, Potter.”

 

Draco steps out of his oxfords, opting not to fuss with the laces, pushing them neatly against the baseboard, his rigid posture from earlier in the afternoon more relaxed.  He looks different, barefoot and bathed in the soft glow of light, like a boy from another life, someone who would show Harry what it’s like to relish in vulnerability, to feel truly comfortable with his demons, to exist in his own skin.   

 

Harry shimmied his coat off his shoulders, eliciting a soft chuckle from Draco’s lips.  “That’s . . . one way of doing it.  Though, you look a bit like the baby ducks I used to chase after as a boy when they waddled, ruffling their little feathers if I screamed or got too close,”

 

Harry smiled, carding fingers through his hair, nearly missing the way Draco’s face fell as he recalled the memory, the faint lines above his brow etched with pain.  He sighed, cradling the neck of his guitar in his hands, walking over to the windowsill, his shoulders heavy with the ghosts of his past.

 

“Malfoy,” Harry murmured, unsure of what to say, terrified that this moment would swallow him whole.  The last time an ache like this threatened to consume him, he watched Sirius slip into a chasm, suspended, his eyes wide as Harry screamed in agony, as elusive as a whisper, present, but not everlasting.

 

“It’s nothing, Potter.  Really,” Draco insisted, the easy warmth of his voice, like Harry’s favorite amber ale, transfigured into something almost vacant, the crack around the edge the only indication of lingering regret.  “Drink?”

 

Harry nodded, his body suddenly heavy with the need to rest, the weight of traveling days finally taking its toll.   He nearly stumbled to the couch, pieces of parchment on the coffee table catching his eye, littered with black calligraphy -- neat, precise lettering, harsh x’s and strikethroughs, emphatic circles, and little golden snitches hand-drawn in each corner.  It’s then that he chances a look at Draco -- standing on his tiptoes, his toffee colored jumper riding up the slightest bit, revealing a smooth expanse of skin just above his angled hipbone.  If Harry’s honest, he’s found Draco interesting for more than half his life, though, in these quiet moments, he finds himself admiring Draco’s quiet confidence, falling into the ease of his voice, the seduction of a familiar stranger.       

 

Draco closed the cabinet and stepped toward the couch, two glasses of caramel-colored liquid in each hand.  The glass was surprisingly warm as Harry cupped in against his palm, and soon, the sweet, familiar scents enveloped him -- the bold caress of honey lingering in his mouth, daring to take hold of Harry’s senses, interrupted by a pop of lemon - fresh and nostalgic, dancing on his tongue. As he swallowed his first sip, the sweet pinch of cinnamon slithered down his throat, transporting him back to winter afternoons and butterbeer with Ron and Hermione.  

 

“This is . . .” Harry paused, running his tongue against his bottom lip before pulling at it with his teeth, savoring the slightest trace of flavor that settled in the middle.  

 

Draco watched him carefully, threading his fingers together across his lap, unsure of the remedy to quell his nervousness in this moment.

 

“God awful?  The best thing you’ve ever tried?  I beg you, please don’t say _‘interesting’_ . . . it’s worse than not saying anything at all.”  Draco huffed and gave a half-hearted eye-roll.

 

“Completely unexpected.”  Harry’s voice was quiet, measured as if he were just beginning to understand this boy-turned-man sitting across from him.  He didn’t know what to make of the flush that crept up his throat and bloomed across his cheeks.  It felt as if he’d lived in these quiet moments before, years ago, held captive by his war-ridden ghosts, terrified of the quiet remnants littering the Forbidden Forest, enticing him with the one thing that perpetually eluded him -- a sense of peace.  He felt it now, and it threatened to undo him.  

 

“Always the tone of surprise, Potter,”  Draco chuckled, a slow smirk birthing against his lips.  “People change, yeah?”

 

Harry smiled, tentatively, as his heart knocked against his rib cage, his bones vibrating, a cadenced rhythm dancing in the soft glow of Draco’s living room.  “Snape taught me that,” he whispered, the next words pushing for release against his throat.   _And so did you._

 

Draco stared at him in silence, finally offering a subdued nod, though the look in his eyes told Harry all he needed to know.  

 

“I should . . .”

 

“Right,” Draco murmured, carding fingers through his hair.  “The guest room is through here,” he crossed the room and sidestepped Harry, guiding him through the corridor, before coming full stop to a wooden door -- a small room, clothed in white, the curtains open still, slivers of moonlight and streetlight illuminating their silhouettes.  Draco watched Harry out of the corner of his eye, the shadows of light swaying in his lenses, breathing life into the scars that marked patches of skin, their melancholy song clutching Draco’s hand, leading him through his abandoned home, surrounded by the hissing of ghosts, merciless.  He looked into Harry’s eyes then, as alive as the manor gardens in springtime, the sweet scent of dew hanging from the trees, shielding Draco’s innocence, the low hum of bees surrounding him as he knelt in the grass, his mind racing with the promise of something new.  

 

“And the bathroom is just to the left here.  If you need anything, let me know.  I’ll be up a while.”

 

Harry nodded, suspended in his own reverie.  The bedroom was small, with beige carpet and a floor-length mirror.  A down comforter draped over the bed, soft peaks of white tucked just inside the seams.  A white built-in adorned the wall in front of him, housing all sorts of novels, records, and leather-bound journals.  The set up reminded him of the hand-me-down room at the Dursley’s, though this was far more inviting, strangely intimate and familiar, like something out of the dreams of Harry’s youth.  Draco lived a quiet life, something Harry was sure he’d never been destined for.  He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, illuminated by the light of the moon.  He looked so much like the boy from the cupboard -- a permanent longing for something more, something other than _this_ etched in the curves of his face, bone deep.

 

Half-asleep, notes of regret from Draco’s guitar in the other room lulled him to sleep, their vibrations cool against his skin, its whisper dissolving to quell the bubbling ache in his bones.  

 

_But I see you now, yeah, I see you_

  
_And release me now kind of like dreams do_

  
_And I see you now, it's hard to see you_

  
_Just don't forget to sing, remember everything_  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Lyrics in this chapter come from Ed Sheeran's _Kiss Me_.
> 
> ♥

The rising sun peeks through Draco’s curtains, thawing the rigid fabric, their hushed whispers against the windowsill audible once more.  Ribbons of light mouth at Draco’s skin, a steady buzz of warmth reviving his pale, aching body -- the curve of his spine, the dip of his shoulder blades celestial against pale gray sheets.  He hums to himself as he stretches, turning over, the tautness that plagued his skin dissolving from morning’s kiss.  As he breathes, palm resting against his abdomen, his senses are assaulted with the smell of bacon and warm buttered toast.  A smile creeps onto his lips as he’s transported back to Saturday morning breakfasts in the Great Hall before Quidditch practice, bathing in the sunlight streaming through the cathedral-style windows, eyes closed, the scent of sweet citrus kissing his pale lashes -- surrounded by the promise of a new day with endless possibilities, flooding his chest with the sense of belonging that he prayed for night after night in the dark confines of his room, his breath ghosting along cracked windowpanes in the Slytherin dungeons.  

 

If he’s honest with himself, a part of him wants to linger in this moment - to stay suspended in the bliss of possibility, to indulge his fantasies, to dream, still, of a different life - to begin again.  A sigh escapes his lips as his feet brush the carpet -- the sensation makes him cringe, and he swears, for the hundredth time, that when he has enough time and patience, he’ll opt for hardwood -- preferably a dark oak finish, glossy but lived-in, much like the antique style he’d been accustomed to as a boy.  A draft of cold air brushes his shoulder blades, and he immediately decides on heathered gray sweats and a forest green henley.  He cards his fingers through his hair, choosing to leave the top two buttons of his shirt undone, an expanse of pale skin on display, the jut and dip of his collarbones reflecting the light streaming through the window like some sort of sculpted masterpiece.  The knit fabric clings to his body, warming him instantly.  Sunlight fills the bathroom, his toes tingling beneath the tile floor.  As he stares at himself in the small mirror mounted just to the right of the sink, he’s shocked by how worn he looks -- his shoulders heavy, sections of his body jutting inward, like he’s trying to curl in on himself, to avoid the inevitable, the weight of wanting too heavy a burden to bear.

 

 

Harry hovers over the range, holding a wooden spoon in one hand, his thumb pushing the sleeve of his maroon-colored jumper from the previous day higher on his wrist, to avoid catching the handle in the thin threads.  His eyes are closed, as if he’s lulled into a daze by the popping of bacon in the skillet, lost in his own memories of breakfasts in the Great Hall, surrounded by a warmth -- a home -- he’d always felt was too elusive, a ghost of a shadow taunting him, no matter how genuine his intentions.  He hasn’t shaved in three days, causing a thin layer of stubble to bloom against his jaw, his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, clinging to the faint scent of cinnamon on his skin.  

 

“I see you’re up.  Sleep well, did you?”

 

Draco’s tone catches Harry off guard -- it’s light and playful -- though he isn’t looking at Draco, he’d swear a smirk was blooming across his lips.  Harry swallows, turning around rather slowly, a feeling of embarrassment that he can’t quite place.  

 

“Indeed.  Thanks for letting me crash, Malfoy.”

 

A twinge of disappointment tugs at Draco’s heart at Harry’s words, as if he’s astonished that last night’s events were actually real, and moreover, that he owes him something.  Draco may have wanted to take everything from Harry at one time, but not anymore.  Now, he just wants . . . well . . . he’s not quite sure.  Or ready for such an admission.

 

“It’s no problem.  What’s all this?”  Draco asks, gesturing to the breakfast, knowing full well what it is, but desperate to make some sort of conversation.

 

“Oh,” Harry breathes, pushing his glasses up against the bridge of his nose once more, “it’s nothing, just some food.  I figured the least I could do is make you breakfast.”  His smile is sheepish and Draco doesn’t miss the way his cheeks color slightly.  He finds it more endearing than it ought to be, and the thought of Harry making them breakfast makes his insides flutter with a hope he’d swore he’d lost long ago -- before the war, before the world was tilted on its axis, before there were sides, before his heart was split in two.  “Hope you’re hungry,” Harry murmurs, pulling the skillet away from the range.

 

Harry’s movements pull Draco from his daze, and the words come tumbling from his lips.  “Starved, actually.  I never ate last night.”  He looked down at his bare feet for a brief moment before turning his attention back to Harry.  “It’s a bit warm for that thick jumper, don’t you think?”  Harry’s mouth twists slightly before he shrugs.  “I meant it, yesterday, when I said I came on a whim,”  his unspoken words trail off, dissolving against the countertop.  Draco pulls his lip between his teeth and turns on his heel, shuffling down the hallway without another word.

 

Harry finishes plating the food, setting the plates across from each other at the oblong dining table, the balmy light pushing through the row of windows pulling at Harry’s buried longings, indulging the small voice in the back of his mind, barely a whisper that this feels strangely domestic.  “Ridiculous,” Harry whispers to himself, swallowing to quell his suddenly dry mouth, “it’s just breakfast.”  Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he knows that anything with Draco is never _just_.

 

It’s then, of course, that Draco reappears, a heathered navy three-quarter sleeve shirt slung over his shoulder, the loose fabric swaying as he walks.  “Here,” Draco offers, holding the shirt loosely in his grip, “it’s an old one, but it should fit,” he murmurs, eyeing Harry’s frame, much the same as he did yesterday when he first stepped into the Haberdashery.  If his eyes lingered a beat too long, Harry said nothing.  “You’re welcome to go and change.  I’ll make tea.”  

 

Once he was in the confines of Draco’s spare bedroom, he allowed the shaky sigh he’d been holding in for far too long to escape.  He tugged at the hems of his jumper, lifting it from his skin, suddenly self-conscious.  The fabric of the navy shirt felt so smooth against his war-ridden hands -- he wanted to hold onto it forever, to sit quietly in the corner reminiscing on the innocence of his youth -- where the only thing he had to worry about was how to write his potions essay between rounds of Saturday Quidditch practice.  A part of him, now, longed to know the Draco of his youth, to understand him.  Clutching Draco’s borrowed shirt, turning the garment over in his hands, standing in the light of Draco’s spare bedroom, Harry realized that he never gave him a proper chance.  He swallowed, tossing his jumper atop the comforter before pulling the shirt over his head.  It smelled like him -- sweet with a hint of sugared lemon, the tiniest zing of mint, nostalgic and mysterious, yet somehow, safe and familiar.  If he closed his eyes, he would be back in the Forbidden Forest, Narcissa hovering over him, begging for Draco to be alive, for Harry to save them all.

 

By the time Harry reemerges, he finds Draco leaning against the windowsill, fiddling with the neck of his guitar, bathed in the balmy mid-morning light, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a strand of golden-blonde hair kissing his pale lashes.  His breath catches in his throat as Draco stares at him, an expression in his eyes that he can’t quite place.  Eventually, he speaks.

 

“The tea is almost ready.  Do you feel more comfortable?”

 

Harry nods, stepping toward the kitchen, nearly bumping into Draco as he passes.  A small chuckle escapes his throat.  “I’ll just be . . .” he murmurs, gesturing toward the table before turning around.  

 

“Go ahead, I’ve got it,”  Draco reassures, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.  Suddenly, the room feels too small and it’s as though he can’t breathe until Harry steps out of his space, enveloped in Draco’s scent but still intricately Harry -- familiar and spicy, sweet cinnamon quelling his all-too-rapid pulse.

 

They sit down to breakfast far later than they should, surrounded by the soft grays of early December sky reflecting against the windowpanes.  It’s Harry who breaks the silence.  “Your bed . . . was glorious.”  He immediately realized his misstep.  “Not your bed, I mean . . . I meant -- the guest bed.  I thought the beds at Hogwarts were comfortable, but this was other-worldly.”  He looked down at his plate, twirling his fork in his hand, embarrassment seizing him.  It was quiet for a beat or two, and then, Draco laughed -- open and warm, his body vibrating with the sound, a slow smile forming across his lips, meeting his eyes effortlessly.  “Oh, Harry,” The words tumbled from his mouth without a second thought.  He paused then, clearing his throat, offering an apologetic look in Harry’s direction, though it came across as more of a wince.  Harry said nothing for a moment or two, the silence stretching between them, cocooned in the almost-winter clouds, its echoes agonizing, tinged with the tiniest bit of hope.  “You’ve finally abandoned Scarhead, I see.  It’s nice to hear you call me Harry.  I like it,”  Harry spoke softly, his last words barely reaching Draco’s ears, though he felt them settle against the skin on the inside of his wrist, a warm pop before the dissolve.

 

“Okay,” Draco whispered, reaching for the raspberry jam, spreading it on his toast carefully, covering the edges with just the right amount of preserve, sucking the remnants off of his index finger with as much subtlety as he could manage.  Harry watched his every move.  Something inside of him snapped, and the realization came flooding to the forefront -- falling for Draco Malfoy was as inevitable as the changing seasons, the passing of time.  He was an ever-present anchor to Harry’s past, a welcome whisper in the dark, the quiet romance of a spring breeze, pulling the scent of tulips and lilies from their petals and surrounding him.  He knew the answer to one of his earlier questions, sitting across from Draco in the Haberdashery -- why he never said goodbye.  

 

_ I’m falling for your eyes  _

_ but they don’t know me yet  _

_ and with this feeling, I’ll forget  _

_ I’m in love now _


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> The conclusion of _Recommencer_.
> 
> The inspiration for this entire story came from the song _Can I Be Him_ by James Arthur, which is featured at the end of this chapter. The story took a different turn from what I'd originally intended, though it feels more authentic this way.
> 
> This has been quite the personal journey for me, nearly four months in the making. I'm sad to say goodbye to these versions of Harry and Draco, but I'm looking forward to what lies ahead.
> 
> ♥

Draco moves to the couch after Harry helps him with their mid-morning dishes, ignoring the way his chest tightens watching him hover over the sink, like waking up here isn’t some sort of anomaly as if he does it all the time, every day.  He looks as though he belongs here with Draco as if they could be something Draco never realized he needed, or wanted, until this moment.  The thought, that he might want it, terrifies him more than anything else.  Harry has always seemed so elusive, untouchable, and yet . . . he’s here, standing barefoot in Draco’s kitchen, in Draco’s old shirt that hugs him in all the right places, looking at peace.  He can’t bear to sit still any longer, so he crosses the room and grabs his guitar by the neck before settling on the couch again, picking lazily at the strings, breathing small, vibrating notes of life back into its neglected soul -- the pads of his fingers placing soft kisses against its body, just as the sun had offered itself up to Draco hours earlier, mouthing against his neck, coaxing him awake.  

 

By the time Harry steps into the living room, Draco has lost himself in the somber melody echoing in the room, pulling his lip between his teeth, the hollows of his cheeks shadowed by the darkening sky snaking through the window.  The expression in his eyes is contemplative, as though he’s searching for the source of his pain, attempting to pinpoint the exact moment when everything turned upside down -- try as he might to become wholly his father’s son to save them all, his cowardice reared its mangled face, pleading with him in the quiet corners of his childhood room, filling his head with false promises of Dumbledore’s greatness and Snape’s undaunting loyalty.  

 

“Hey,” Harry whispers, reaching out, his hand hovering over Draco’s shin, waiting for permission, his question hanging in the air above them, suspended, nearly overpowered by the sounds enveloping them.  “Draco, hey . . .” he touches then, Draco’s skin is chilled even beneath the thick fabric of sweatpants.  Draco looks at Harry, through his pale lashes, swallowing heavily.  He’s startled, clearly, though there’s a hint of curiosity in his eyes, wondering what it is, exactly, that Harry is doing, hovering over him, waiting for Draco to say it’s okay to breathe.  

 

“Harry,” Draco whispers, the tremor evident in his voice, the question,  _ why did you call me Draco _ , threatening to fall from his lips.  That’s what he wants to know, more accurately, he wants to hear it again, the way it rolls off of his tongue, softly, with a gentle longing, a reverence that Draco imagined was only for people like Potter and Dumbledore, saviors, leaders, people who mattered.  What he asks, though, is breathy and uncertain, his pulse hammering against his temple.   

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

Harry raises Draco’s feet and sits on the couch, his hipbone inches from the back of Draco’s thighs, before settling Draco’s ankles back across his lap.  “Sitting down,” he murmurs, looking at Draco for the briefest of moments, frustration flashing across his face.  Draco can tell he wants something but doesn’t know how to ask.  “Go on,” he whispers, nudging his heel into Harry’s thigh, his voice warm and reassuring, similar to earlier, dripping with cautious intimacy.  “Will you keep playing?  It’s . . . nice.”

 

Draco nods, his eyes sparkling in the dim light of the room, like a strike of lightning, beautifully destructive, threatening to unravel Harry’s intricate webs of pain knotted in his ribcage.  The longer Draco played, the deeper Harry tumbled into the dark depths of his own mind, the sting of loss flashing behind his eyes, watching his mother steel herself against his infant crib, the light leaving her eyes, enveloping Harry’s world in an explosion of green mist, binding and toxic.

 

Harry reemerged with a strangled gasp, surrounded by quiet, Draco’s chin resting in the crook of Harry’s shoulder.  “Harry,” he whispered, “come back.  It’s okay.”

 

“S-sorry, Draco.”  Harry stutters, swallowing heavily, longing to drown in Draco’s scent, comfortably warm and familiar.

 

“It’s okay, I get it.  Believe me,”  Draco murmurs.  “Let’s get out of here for a while, yeah?”

 

Harry nods, lingering against Draco a moment more before shifting and rising from the couch, in search of his shoes.

 

*******

 

The gate surrounding Finsbury park is cold and rigid, creaking just slightly as Draco pushes it open.  He falls into step with Harry, their bodies swaying in time with the breeze, brushing against each other amidst dead leaves, their last breaths seeping out onto the harsh cracked lines of pavement.  The pond that pulsed with life at the beginning of summer is now a vacuum for the souls of the dead, the damned, drowned in ink-ladened water.  Now seemed as good a time as any.

 

“Harry,” Draco whispered, his gaze dropping to the curve of Harry’s lips, lingering there, a chasm of time surrounding them.  “Do you trust me?”

 

Harry studied him for a brief moment, a chilled winter breeze cutting his neck, sharp as glass, reminiscent of the way Snape lay against the window behind the docks, splayed out and bleeding, before he uttered his last words, closing his eyes and slipping into the void of time with all of the others Harry had lost, because still, he existed.  

 

“Yes, Draco.”  He’d trusted him ever since the night on the astronomy tower, his wand trembling as he lowered his aim from Dumbledore’s sternum, trying to maintain some sense of control over his life, over the choices he had yet to make.  If he was honest, he understood Draco then, realizing that Draco  _ was _ his before and his not-so-distant after.  He and Draco were one in the same -- they were afraid of fear itself, the crippling, all-consuming fear that threatened to undo even the greatest humans.  

 

“Come with me.”

 

This time, when he held out his hand, Harry took it without a second thought, discovering that their fingers fit together perfectly, their heavy metronomic pulses syncing together, anchoring them to the earth, the beginning of the end for both of them. 

 

Draco sat on the decaying grass, pushing his free hand into the dirt-caked earth beside him, still holding onto Harry’s hand.  

 

“Last summer, I came here to say goodbye to my mother.  I severed a buttercup flower from its stem and watched it float along the pond, between the rowboats, underneath the willow trees.  I never answered her letters, because I knew I couldn’t go back.  I didn’t want to believe that . . .  _ that _ had been my life.  That I had been a Death Eater.  Coerced or not, I was.  I ran, gladly so.”

 

Harry was breathing deeply beside him, tracing patterns on his own thigh.

 

“Months before that, I saw you for the first time.  In the market in downtown Crouch End, staring at the fruits and flowers, pulling your lip between your teeth, trying to decide what to get.  You were completely elusive.  The closer I would get, the quicker you would vanish.”

 

“Draco . . .”

 

“When I was a prisoner in my own house, under the Dark Lord’s thumb, I used to wish for you.  I whispered your name over and over in the dark, but you never came.  I watched him torture my mother.  He sucked the life out of her eyes day after day.  The  _ Avada Kedavra _ would have been a kindness, Harry.  The Dark Lord murdered her long before I said my goodbyes.”

 

Draco sighed then, knowing he’d revealed too much.  He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the once empty caverns in his body for filling up again, resurrecting his ghosts and regrets, allowing them to thrash wildly underneath his skin.  For the first time in years, he longed for his wand.  Suddenly  _ this _ was not enough.   

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, placing an index finger underneath his jaw, feeling his throat work as he swallowed.  “Look at me.”  He opened his eyes then, and Harry’s face came into focus, his lips parted just so, the lightest touch resting underneath Draco’s jaw.  “Neither one of us can change the past.  Sometimes, I ask myself -- if I had the chance to go back and spend one day with my parents, would I do it?  At Hogwarts, I would have said yes, without question, no matter the cost.  Would I do it now?  I can’t be sure.  When I was in the Forbidden Forest, giving myself up to the Dark Lord, I saw Sirius, Remus, and my parents.  I was ready to die, because I understood, in that moment, what Dumbledore had been trying to tell me all those years ago -- _the ones that love us never really leave us_.”

 

Harry felt Draco’s breath hitch.  He moved his hand to rest beneath Draco’s shaking thigh.  Draco could feel the levee in his chest threatening to crack, terrified of his own anguish, of his pain.  Terrified that he could feel  _ so much _ after all this time.

 

They sat like that, huddled together, tethered to the earth, until the light vanished from the sky, the light from Harry’s wand leading the way back home.

 

That night, Draco dreamed of his mother’s youthful face, watching the smile reach her eyes as she bounced him on her lap, the melodic tones of her voice and his bubbly childhood laughter echoing against the manor walls.

 

*******

 

Draco woke in the early hours of the morning, the silvery half-moon taking its final breath before dissolving into the lavender pink sunrise, whispering a promise to return after seducing the setting sun into its slumber.  His skin was itching with a sense of anticipation as if he were on the cusp of discovering something profound.  

 

It came to him an hour later, sitting with his back against the frame of the windowsill, legs outstretched and ankles crossed.    The melody tumbled from his lips, sweet and familiar, the rhythmic beat of his heart keeping time, laying him open.  He smiled, slow and warm, before leaning down to grab his guitar, limitless possibilities reflected in the windowpane.

 

Harry woke slowly, a melodic warmth pulsing just underneath his skin.  His fingertips brushed against the thick fabric of his maroon jumper, gathering it at the neck and pulling it over his head.  He fastened his jeans and tied his boots, carding a hand through his hair.  Though he didn’t want to leave, he doubted, even still, that Draco would ask him to stay.  

 

By the time he reached the living room, he found Draco, quietly humming to himself, mumbling a stream of continuous words, tumbling out of him, like water bursting through a cracked dam.  The constant lilt of sound was hypnotic, like breathing, sharp, staccato uptakes on the inhale, the ending phrases a breathy exhale, lingering in thin air, waiting for the answer to an inevitable question.  Draco looked so much like the young boy that intrigued Harry when he smiled, as if they’d lived another life, longing for the thrill of beginning again, growing into something new.

 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, his name tumbling forth like a question that Harry already knew the answer to, for nearly half his life.  

 

At the sound of his name, Draco quieted, abandoning the windowsill, and stepping toward Harry.  “I finished the song.  The one I’ve been working on for months,” he murmured, his hand resting on Harry’s bicep.  “It’s yours, Harry.”  

 

As Draco played, he lost himself in memories of his youth, images of Harry surfacing in every corner of his mind, through every season, year after year.  He smiled around the familiar melody as the words tumbled from his lips, traveling to meet Harry, attaching themselves to his skin, sinking in bone-deep, the sensation threatening to overwhelm him completely.  

 

When the last of his words trailed off and the music stopped, he felt his mother’s hand resting against his shoulder, the scent of buttercups and spring air surrounding him.

 

Harry stood, tentatively at first, before making his way to Draco, his heart hammering in his chest.  This felt like living and dying at once, seeing himself through Draco’s eyes.  Draco shifted on the couch, peeling his guitar from his body, smoothing out his khakis with his palm.  Harry hovered over him, placing his calloused palm on Draco’s chest, just beneath the scars of his youth.  Draco tilted his head upwards as Harry stood in the empty space between his legs, leaning down and capturing his lips. 

 

The chase was finished, but the thrill was just beginning.

 

_ You walked into the room _

_ And now my heart has been stolen _

_ You took me back in time to when I was unbroken _

_ Now you're all I want _

_ And I knew it from the very first moment _

_ When the lights come on, and I’m on my own _

_ Will you be there to sing it again? _

_ Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories? _

_ Can I be him? _


End file.
